


Matchmaker

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Series: Burden [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dark Comedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Frisk insitgates the parent trap, TORIEL GIVES U A KISS, sans is hashtag relatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:00:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is why he doesn't make promises.</p><p>Because it makes people care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matchmaker

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by the ever so lovely Rem on the writing meme our roleplay comm did:
> 
> Sans + Frisk, matchmaker
> 
> Make it cute Soriel I said. Don’t make it about Frisk. Make it cute Soriel don’t focus on Frisk make it cute Soriel don’t focus on-
> 
> Fuck.

 

* * *

 

He knows what they’re doing, the little squirt. Slumped over the kitchen table, Sans gives Frisk what he hopes will magically transform into a stern look, _sans_ the effort required…

If their cheeky, tooth-gapped grin is anything to go by, it doesn’t work. He’s not even going to start on the tooth-gap; some things in life call for sleepless nights and bottles of ketchup, and that’s one of them.

Tori, on the other hand, doesn’t suspect a thing, bless her doting soul. She’s humming as she stands over the stove she never uses, whipping up pancakes with a touch of magic and a dollop of love. And why not? Her kid wasn’t going to turn nine every day.

Really...it’s a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing, flowers blooming. On days like these-

He should still be in bed. Except he’s getting worse and worse when it comes to making promises and actually keeping them. Frisk wanted to spend the day with him and Tori for their birthday? Kid was going to spend the day with him and Tori.

Because determination...so on, so forth.

It’s too early for whatever the kid’s plotting.

“Almost done; are you two ready for breakfast?” Toriel looks over to them with a gentle smile, and Sans goes to speak, happy to answer on their behalf-

Until he’s halted by a loud “ _HUP!_ ” as Frisk holds both their hands up for silence, nose scrunching up in concentration. The room...is silent. If he could raise a brow, Sans would; but he waits just as patiently as Toriel until that lightbulb goes off in the kid’s head.

“...You _batter_ believe it, mom.”

To be fair, it’s a rich reward. He can practically see the hearts in Toriel’s eyes, shooting a lazy grin her way before letting his attention go back to the birthday kid.

“Pretty _eggcellent,_ kiddo.” He praises. It’s a nice feeling, seeing how a few small words can make the kid light up. Toriel dishes up for all of them before taking a seat by his side- and hell. Much as he’d hate to say it, the whole feel of the moment screams _homey._

 

Moving right along, then.

 

“Sounds like the type of child we need to _pan_ out our day.” Toriel chimes in. Papyrus is right; the jokes sound even worse coming from her, but he’s hardly going to complain when both mother and child fall into a tiny giggling fit.

“Heh...the park!” Frisk proclaims. And it’s back to suspicions. Tori clearly thinks nothing of it, laughing into her hand… but what kind of kid asks to go somewhere they’ve been at least four times this week?

“The park, huh? And _flour_ we going to get there?”

“A shortcut!” Comes the bright-eyed answer...and there it is. The deceptively innocent look. “Right, Dunkle Sans?”

He freezes. Toriel pauses mid-bite, looking to him questioningly.

Oh, they’re good. For a nine year old, they’re really good.

“Dunkle Sans..?” She questions, and Sans briefly considers taking a stroll under the table. Straight to Grillbys.

“Uhh- well- that’s just-”

“Dad uncle. Dunkle.” Frisk announces triumphantly, digging into their pancakes with gusto. Damage done, apparently. “Dunkle Shans Sh’aid I can call hib dat.”

Tori’s laughing too hard to chastise them for speaking with their mouth full. Pity.

“O-oh my! That is…” She wipes a tear from her eye, smiling ear to ear- smiling at him, and if Sans has the muscles to do so, he’d be choking on pancake right now. As is, he’s probably dripping syrup on something.

“That’s lovely, Sans.” Her hand touches the back of his own just briefly, and- nope. He was wrong.

Now he’s leaking syrup. Toriel is blissfully unaware of his predicament, but the way the kid’s shoulders shake with muffled laughter shows somebody clued in.

Asgore help him, he’s going to put the dunk in Dunkle.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, they don’t actually take a shortcut to the park.

Frisk seems absolutely fine with this, walking between them as they stroll down the street in an odd little line, tiny hands keeping them all linked together. Now and again, he meets Toriel’s eye over the top of their head, and-

Eh. The amount of effort required is worth it to have Frisk yelling in delight, dangling off the ground as they’re swung back and forth. Toriel’s mirth is a nice bonus to the whole thing, and the entire walk seems to pass by as if it’s nothing.

The surface has this thing called ‘seasons’, and Sans has to admit, Autumn is growing on him. Or maybe it’s just the giggling, Autumn child hanging off his hand that was giving it that extra...oomph.

“Now. What would you like to do first, my child?”

It’s not the biggest park by any means. Just some kid’s play equipment, a stretch of lawn, and a cement pathway down the middle- but it’s close by Tori’s place. He’s taken Frisk here a few times himself, whenever mom’s been too busy with school work. Easy enough done; just collect the kid from school and take them somewhere he knows they like, keep an eye socket on them… doze against a tree. 

He’s been here with them enough times to know what they’ll go for. Swingset’s free. They take a half step forward before seemingly remembering something, and he gets _that look_ again. Right before they-

Calmly place his hand in Toriel’s, pressing their palms together. A nod of satisfaction, and they’re dashing away.

 _Damn it, kid._ He’s going to have to have a _Talk_ with them, isn’t he? A long… _Talk._ About personal space and boundaries; asking people for _permission_ before they go and-

Toriel huffs, breathless with laughter, and continues her leisurely stroll down the pathway. Sans following along, almost dumb in his silence. She doesn’t let go of his hand.

That’s. That’s a pickle.

“I want to thank you again for agreeing to spend time with us today.” He finally dares to look up, at that, catching the tail ends of a wistful smile. Her gaze isn’t on him at all; following it is easy enough. Right over to the kid, already kicking themselves off the ground. “They are...somewhat difficult to buy for.”

“Oh yeah?” It’s amazing, really. How normal his voice sounds. She still hasn’t let go. Sans manages an easy enough grin, eyes going back to the path. One of them should be paying attention to where they’re going. “Too _eggspensive,_ Tori?”

A soft laugh. “I only whisk they were. Frisk didn’t ask for any toys.”

“...That so?” He’s not a human expert, but- kids are kids. Toys are part of the package.

“No.” Her voice is quiet, almost too quiet to catch. “For the past month, Frisk has simply asked to spend time with their friends.”

He has to. He has to look up at her again, watch her watch the kid with a visibly glowing sense of pride; like she was born into this role. Made to mother. It makes him want to rub his hand over his non-existent hair-

About as much as the downward turn of her lips makes his spine go cold.

There’s a problem then, in what she just said. Something that’s dug under her skin, probably been needling at her for the past month. And if he doesn’t want her to have to explain it, he’s going to have to figure it out. Put a little backbone into getting an answer.

Ah, shit. He really doesn’t want her to explain. She’s lost enough kids to deserve not feeling alone with this one.

“It’s a bit odd, yeah…” He says it slowly, buying some time for his mind to piece it together. Seriously piece it together. “You thinking they’re too scared to ask you for things?”

“I am thinking so, yes.” She agrees, and Sans has a brief moment of guilt, for feeling good about that. “But I am also starting to suspect...they are afraid of being alone.”

He can’t think of anything to say. It’s a good time to keep his mouth shut.

Of course, he doesn’t.

“They seem alright with it from where I’m standing.” Of course they do. He doesn’t need Toriel’s sharp look beaming into the side of his skull to get that. It isn’t the same thing.

“Did you ever hear about the legend of Mount Ebott, Sans?” The question is apparently hypothetical, since Toriel doesn’t wait for an answer. “Legends say that travellers who climb the mountain disappear. It is the same story I’ve been told for...a very long time.”

Since the first? That’s a question even he’s not stupid enough to ask. First or not, doesn’t matter.

What matters is her next question.

“Why does an eight year old child climb a mountain like that?”

The question hangs there without an answer. The swing-set creaks in protest as Frisk swings themselves too high; the chain jerks back, sending the child on a mad spin. Leaving them giggling, even though they can't stop.

 

Autumn isn’t so pleasant anymore.

 

* * *

 

“You’re really staying?” It’s about the fiftieth time Frisk’s asked, and he’d probably be tired of it by now, if it wasn’t for the utterly adoring gaze being tossed his way. The kid’s had dinner, a bath, and the little onesie they’ve got on is, heh, covered in polka dots and hearts.

Hard to be a downer when he’s face to face with that.

“Yep. Tori and I discussed it and uh, technically, it’s still your birthday.” He glances over at her, just visible through the doorway to the kitchen. Doing the dishes before she lets herself settle down for an evening of movies.

The smile she gives him is far too sad. It’s pretty obvious Toriel regrets bringing it up at all. But...what did she expect him to do here? Waltz out the door with that thought running through his mind.

Honestly, Sans can’t think of anything he’d like to do more.

That’s how he knows it’s the wrong answer.

“...So we figured I might as well just hang out ‘till tomorrow.” He concludes, and the kid actually claps their hands together. Hard to compare the child in front of him with the loaded bombshell he’d had dropped on his lap a few hours ago.

Sans should know better than to think anything’s easy, when it comes to this kid. Always full of mysteries.

“Does that mean I get to stay up late?”

“Dunno, kid. Ask your mom.” He gives them an apologetic shrug as they puff out their cheeks- though they’re pretty quick to clamber onto the couch next to him. And. Cuddle up against his side.

Right. This entire family is just a bunch of pickles.

“Why don’t you and Sans pick a movie, and we can decide that later?” Mother declares in a peaceable manner, and Frisk makes a small noise of agreement, immediately taking control of the remote. They flick through channels so fast Sans doesn’t even catch half of what he’s supposed to be looking at, until he’s face to flatscreen with a talking, cartoon lion.

Heh. Humans and their imaginations.

 

…

 

As they watch together, a smell begins to fill the room. Melting butter. Toriel makes herself at home on the opposite side of Frisk, and Sans is fine with that. It’s fine. One kid wedged in the middle makes everything better, though he sincerely hopes for Tori’s sake that she’s not expecting Frisk to brush their teeth again tonight.

Crunch. Crunch. Aside from the talking (they sing, too. Whodathunkit.) the rest of the silence is taken up by the sounds of Frisk making good on the treat they’ve been given; Sans isn’t even going to try it. Big boned enough without eating copious amounts of salt and butter.

Tori...still isn’t looking at him. Dead set on the movie, except he can see that she’s a world away. The only thing that really brings her out of it is the uncomfortable noises the kid makes when her arm squeezes them a little too tightly, immediately relaxing for their sake.

...It’s no good, honestly. He could ignore it, but that’s the wrong answer too.

So he taps her on the arm. His uh...lack of certain features makes mouthing impossible, so he just writes it out on her arm, nice and slow. I M S O R R Y.

Silence. Eventually, she writes back.

I T S O K A Y.

With a quick glance at the kid between them, Sans fishes out his phone. Frisk doesn’t even look up, entirely invested in the lion’s plight. Something something a singing warthog. Well, so long as they’re busy-

[#727] I hadn’t thought about it before. Didn’t think before I opened my mouth.

Tori’s phone vibrates. She’s as quick to glance down at Frisk as he was, eventually deeming it safe enough to give his text a read. He watches as she bites her lip, thumb slowly moving over the keypad.

[#686] I understand. I should not have burdened you with it.

The urge to txtspk is there. It’d be easier, with one arm trapped above the kid’s head, but he manages regardless. Tori’ll appreciate the effort; she’s a teacher.

[#727] Next time, burden me with it sooner.

He feels her smile, rather than sees it.

[#686] Tibia frank, I did not consider it something you would want to be burdened with.

[#727] Pretty sure I’d rather you weren’t feeling bonely, on this one.

 

[#686] :)

 

They keep texting. Sans is quick to move the topic onto something more lighthearted; there’s things to say there, sure, but he’s not going to do that by phone. The kid starts nodding off around the point where the hyenas come back in, and he only has to suffer through one attempt at a luau before they’re out like a light.

He couldn’t have asked for better timing.

“I got it.” He whispers when Tori starts to shift. She looks surprised for a moment before her expression melts into something more tender, leaning over to press a kiss to Frisk’s forehead. Barely breathing out her laugh when she gets a tired grumble in return.

Frisk might be...catching up with him, height wise, but they aren’t all that heavy. He can’t tell, when he picks them up, if that’s just a human thing, or something else...and he doesn’t want to think about it. That’s a thought for when he’s dropped them off to bed, carefully moving them out of Tori’s sight, before taking a quick shortcut up the stairs.

Kid’s too out of it to notice, heh.

“Okay, kiddo. How do I tuck you in?” It’s a juggle. He wishes that were a pun, but it’s pretty damn literal from where he’s standing. It takes some serious effort to pull back the blankets and put Frisk down without straight up dropping them, something he’s absolutely certain wouldn’t be appreciated. And once they’re in, blankets up to their chin, he just-

He forgets how small they really are.

 

He supposes he’s not the only one.

 

She’s at the kitchen table when he comes back down. Sans means to ask; does Frisk like the bedroom door cracked open? It’s typical, baby bones stuff, to be scared of the dark. But the kid has more reason to be scared of it than anyone, and he just-

He doesn’t ask.

Her tired smile is enough to stop him.

“Thank you, Sans.”

“S’fine.” He takes the seat across from her, already appreciating her hospitality. He didn’t even need to ask, and there it is; a big mug waiting for him.

Of ketchup.

They don’t speak, for a minute. Toriel engrosses herself in her cup of hot chocolate, and Sans respectfully avoids getting anymore unfortunate spills on her kitchen floor. It’s the kind of silence that’s comfortable- in a grim, morbid kind of way. Solidarity in knowing unspeakable horrors.

He can’t even remember the last time he’d shared that with anyone.

“So…” He breaks the silence intentionally, putting his cup down a little louder than necessary. Toriel peeks up at him over the rim of her own, and he almost regrets killing the mood. Almost. “Legends tell of a mountain that eats people. I’m guessing humans are...uh, the suspicious sort?”

Certainly seem like it, from the exposure he’s had. Tori sighs, slowly sitting upright as she gives an elegant shrug- as elegant as a shrug could ever hope to be.

“They are, to an extent. Mt Ebott certainly does not appear a favored topic of discussion.” She smiles deprecatingly. “Though that may have been for the best, considering.”

“And yet somehow, everybody’s best friend just happened to wander up there.” Sans muses in turn, dipping his finger in his cup. That sauce is. Not coming off. So he might as well just leave his finger in there. “Not a very pleasant thought, Tori. How long..?”

Has she been clammed up about this?

“From the moment I saw them.” The heartbreak in her voice is a palpable, living thing, crawling over to make itself at home somewhere in his ribcage. “I’ve had them all, Sans. They all stayed with me, at some point. And none of their stories were ever what one would call picture perfect. Some were forced up that mountain. Some...decided to go.”

The six souls. Seven, including the First Child.

...He wouldn’t be fair to himself if he thought for a second that he cared about any of them. At the end of the day, they were all gone. He’d had a hand in tracking down a few of them, himself. The first few.

Nah. In the end, he couldn’t do anything for them. Their lot in life was to be memories in Tori’s head, little visions of heartache.

The kid upstairs, though.

“And our...kid?” Nice choice of words, there. Sans refuses to lose his cool now, carefully spinning his finger in it’s saucy little cup. “You’re obviously picking up more than I am, Tori. Fill the blanks, here.”

“Sans, you know them well enough. Do they ever appear to be the type of child to bring up their problems?” Another smile; she really needs to stop with those. Self disgust is his thing, not hers. “I do know one thing as fact, however.”

“Oh yeah? Lay it on me.”

“Frisk is not the child’s name.”

Well. He did ask for it, but- that’s another gut puncher, right there. Sans leans back in his chair for a moment, absently grateful for the fact that Toriel seems to understand his need to process things as...they are. Apparently.

“...You’re that sure, huh?”

“They’re a child, Sans. They should have a family. You did not expect me to simply keep them when their mother could be out of her mind with worry, did you?”

“Fair enough.” _And you? How about your worries? Care to share with the class?_

Course not. He slouches down, no longer smiling.

“I looked. It is not as if we did not have enough media attention upon us, and humans have what they call, child services? But the answer they had was the same. There is no child by the name of Frisk native to this country.”

“To this country, Tori.” He catches her mistake as gently as he can, hoping for a hole that will make things...easier. Worse. He’s not sure, at this point. “Doesn’t mean there isn’t a family who came back from vacation, minus one kid.”

She’s shaking her head before he even finishes, cutting off the last of his words.

“I do not believe so. There is still the media attention. Asgore ensured Frisk would be in the spotlight when he dubbed them ambassador for our kind. No one has stepped forward. Past that, it is my belief that they do not want to be found.”

There’s an urge to press his fingers up against where the bridge of his nose would be. Just- whatever he could do to exhibit some, small semblance of the disbelief he’s feeling right now.

“...Nickname, maybe? I dunno, Tori; kids don’t just make up names for themselves. Not like this.” Kids lied. That was fact. What kids didn’t do was instinctively answer to the same name for months without slipping up at least once.

“Possibly. Does it matter?” No. It really doesn’t. Doesn’t fix the problem in the slightest. Doesn’t stop Toriel from looking positively haunted. “What life do these children live, to do the things they do?”

“Dunno. But uh…it’s not like the Underground was any better.”

She scoffs, at that. It’s not funny. She’s not acting like it is.

“Asgore made sure of that.”

And now they’re starting to trail into ex territory.

Once again, he’s gotta be honest with himself. That’s a conversation he’d rather turn into dust than actually participate in. _Where are the knives?_

“Look, uh, Tori-” He’s fumbling, but really. Really. What else is he supposed to do here. “Whatever happened to them, before the fall, after it. The fact is, they’ve got us now. And, heh, I know I’m not exactly...experienced, like you, but I pull out a laugh or two, here and there. They're gonna be okay.”

Tori’s shocked.

Honest to- whatever shocked, holding her hand over her chest like he’s just spat out an insult for every child who died for a dead end cause. And possibly lumped her first two into it for good measure. The longer she’s quiet, the less comfortable he is. And he wasn’t comfortable to begin with.

This is why he doesn’t keep promises. It’s always-

“Sans.” And she’s got his hand again. Not the saucy one. No, that one’s frozen in place for the moment, which is about as frozen as the rest of him is. He stares up at her, and discomfort turns into absolute, blind panic when he realizes she’s crying.

No.

 _No no no_ , that’s about as far out of his comfort zone as he’s willing to go.

“Thank you...so much.”

“ _Uh-_ Sure, Tori.”

Something help him. Anything.

 

* * *

 

 

Winding up on the couch isn’t so bad. It’s not like he hasn’t kipped up on the couch before, whenever he’s been too lazy to make it upstairs to his room. Sometimes, even shortcuts were too much effort.

Hell, getting comfortable was too much effort, right now. He’s pretty sure he’s out of it before Toriel even makes it up the stairs, buried in a comforter that smells like something baking. It’s not a bad thing at all.

Then, he wakes up.

He wakes up.

 

He wakes up.

 

And that’s how he knows that something’s wrong, because generally speaking he doesn’t often wake up three times within the span of a few seconds, especially when those few seconds are exactly the same as the ones before.

To add to the charm of it all is the fact that Frisk’s screaming. They’re screaming. They’re screaming. Don’t 999999. Don’t 999999. **Don’t.**

Falling off the couch is definitely not the most graceful shortcut he’s ever made. It’s less impressive still when he does it three times in succession, within the same span of time. The exact same span of time. He can hear Toriel running down the hall, and running down the hall, and running down the hall-

“ _Frisk!_ ” Fuck if he knows how he got on the bed. He doesn’t remember it and he doesn’t particularly care, not when he’s got a lap full of screaming child and a wicked sense of deja vu that just won’t quit. Don’t 999999. Don’t 999999

Don't.

He'd thought they'd be saying something more realistic. Don't hurt me. Don't touch me.

 

Don't.

 

"Don't let go! Don't let go!"

 

He’s going to kill someone.

 

He doesn’t care how long it takes, or how deep he has to dig. Someone’s dead over this, because he never wants to hear the kid scream something like that again. Even in their sleep, they’re holding onto him so tightly, pulling him in, that there’s a very serious chance he’s about to get hurt-

So he slaps them.

 

It just, uh. Seems like the thing to do.

 

To his credit, it works, somewhat. He’s left with a ringing head by the end of it, but Toriel finally makes it to the door, gasping out in horror and clutching to the frame for dear life as Frisk looks at him, really looks at him.

It’s like they’re devastated to see him, for a second there.

Then the tears start.

And very quickly, two things happen. The first is pulling Frisk up so they can hide their face in his hoody. The second is a very sharp, pointed gesture for Toriel to _leave the damn room_ , because _whatever the fucking damn, she does not need to hear her only living child crying out her dead son’s name over and over._

Heh.

And he thought he was tired before.

“Doesn’t sound like you’re having a good time, huh, kiddo?” Resigned to his fate at this point, Sans shifts fully onto the bed, leaning up against the headboard as his clothes become someone’s tissue for the second time, that night. This. This is why he hates promises.

Because it’s all about caring enough to make them. Caring enough to keep them. It means making effort when he’s all out of juice, but hell if he can help it anymore. He’s getting terrible at making the things and not keeping them.

Tori, or Frisk? Who does he blame more for this dilemma, that’s the real question? Technically, she started it. But technically, they were the cause.

That seems to be a running trend. Sans isn’t about to hold on hope for a change, either.

The stupidest thing is he’s too tired to care. He just rubs the kid’s back some until they go from a wailing mess to a mostly quiet, hiccuping one, and quietly reassesses the situation while he’s got the time.

He doesn’t like the implications, here. Not even slightly.

“It’s okay, kid. You’re alright. I’m not letting go.”

“I don’t want to let go.” They mumble into his jacket, and he has to sigh. He has to sigh, because really.

He thought Tori sounded heartbroken.

“I know, kid. You don’t have to.”

They’re supposed to stop crying then. Not cry more. He almost expects the headache to come back- but clearly, he’s just said the wrong thing. There’s nothing for it then, aside from shutting his mouth, letting them cry it out, and hoping they fall asleep soon.

And pray to _whatever_ that when Tori comes back in, they’re actually out of it, again.

....heh. Happy Birthday, kid.

 

Was it worth it?

 

* * *

 

He means well. For once, Sans is almost entirely sure that he does. Just let the kid fall asleep, have a very quiet conversation with Tori, then close his eyes for the next ten years. It’s a good plan. In fact, it’s a great plan.

One that falls to pieces when he falls asleep, before he’s even sure that Frisk has.

Never let it be said that he’s the best guy for the job.

The birds are what gets him up. The hell spawn birds, chirping away like it’s the dawn of the dead. Feels like the dawn of the dead. He is the dawn of the dead, and _whatever help the flowers,_ should they decide to get in on this too.

His head hurts like hell. Opening his eyes is the biggest mistake of his life, so far. And that’s saying something.

Frisk stares back, looking extremely put out. That could be due to the fact that he’s been using them as a child sized teddy bear, a mistake he’s quick to rectify with a rueful, albeit tired, chuckle.

“Heh...sorry, kid. Must’ve been more tired than I thought…”

“You’re in my bed.” Says the kid, stating the absolute obvious. And Sans blinks back, not...entirely sure what they want from him, here. Another apology?

“Uh, yeah. S’pose I am?”

If anything, they look even more put out. It’s actually pretty impressive, considering they have the sniffles. Tori’s not going to give them an inch of space, today.

“You were supposed to fall asleep in _mom’s bed._ ”

Ah.

Aha. Ha. Haha.

“ _Fffff_ …” The noise he makes is pretty akin to a kettle. There is a faint possibility it is a kettle; he doesn’t always check to see what’s gotten trapped by his ribcage. The more likely possibility is that he’s snapped. Well and truly gone from this world.

He’s still gotta get up, after all this. At some point, he’s probably going to find himself beamed with at least one pleading look or gentle request to stay for breakfast- and hell, even after that, he’s probably gonna stick around. Nap on the couch till the cows come home or Frisk starts screaming, whatever comes first.

And after that, he’ll probably sit there for a few hours, a sympathetic paw in one hand, a bottle of ketchup in the other, and quietly ruminate over all the things he just doesn’t get, yet. All the things he’s probably never going to have a real answer to; things he’ll wear himself down for years struggling to work out, because really. Some things only the kid knows the answer to, don’t they?

“Sans?” Very absently, he tickles them. Mostly because- well, why not? Gotta push the evil out of them somehow, right? Laughter is the best medicine for obnoxious little matchmakers doing the hard yards.

Frisk’s delighted squeals bring Toriel running, as he’d figured they would. She hangs in the doorway, the image of relief. Lips curling into a smile that turns into a laugh hidden behind one hand. Right before his eyes, she loses ten years. And there she is, born to mom.

Yeah. He’s gonna stick around.

He’s gonna stick around, because- welp.

 

This is why he doesn’t make promises.

 

Because it makes people care.

 

And hell, he’s pretty far past the point where he can pretend he doesn’t.

 


End file.
